


so put out all the fires and blow away the smoke, i’m getting pretty tired of living on hope

by dankobah



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 1980s, Alcohol, Detroit, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Violence, the 1980's drug kingpin au no one asked for, two crazy kids that sell drugs together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 01:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16566689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dankobah/pseuds/dankobah
Summary: Though she’s weakening his walls.  “I’m Rey.” Stepping forward, he can’t help his stiffening up.  The reaction happens whenever anyone advances too fast, long ingrained in his psyche from beatdowns and knife fights.Feet halt and his breath releases, somehow soundless.  He has to remain fair which means ghostly silence.  Being particularly warm is a bad idea while all the other guys he’s cased before are here.  They’re looking at her like a piece of meat swaying from Riverfront Tower.Keeping the sharks from snapping up to bite is looking to be a real challenge.





	so put out all the fires and blow away the smoke, i’m getting pretty tired of living on hope

**Author's Note:**

> please mind the tags before reading this work. i will put content warnings before each chapter if it is not tagged above, but there will be given triggering content in every chapter ie: drug abuse and drug references, violence with intent to kill and harm
> 
> title from "what about love" by 'til tuesday.

No sleeping means the need for an alarm is null.

It’s when he hears the radiator kick on for the seventh time in the hour that he decides to get up, pushing off his palms and leaning back against the headboard in the dark room.  Arctic despite the heating, his persistent yawning would typically heat him up.

There’s no use in prolonging the shock, swinging his feet out of the bed to hit the carpeting and crawling out from under the blankets that he had been previously fetal under.  Shivering when the air hits his bare skin, his shoulders make a stomach-turning pop when he stretches his arms over his head with a yawn.

Poster papered walls, the likes of Van Halen, Bowie, and Depeche Mode are revealed by the overcast pouring through an opening in the curtains.  He’s quickly realizing the effort of fixing his hair is futile, hunching down to comb through wild sooty hair in the cracked mirror that split his face in two.  Sticking up every which way, a shower should fix the mess on top of his head.

Showering means more permafrost but what choice does he have?  Snoke was demanding the presence of his dutiful lieutenant since Ben skipped out last week to crack some addict’s skull in.  Who was he to deny the all-powerful ruler of Detroit?

A good answer is dead and the shower water turns on as he slams the door to the tiny bathroom.  Radio already poised on the counter, practiced fingers turn it on and begin to tune past the static.

Catching the end of Wham!, “You’re on 99.5 WABX, bringing you _I Want to Know What Love Is_ from Foreigner-”

Eyes roll back into his head as he changes the station, opting for 106.7 Quadruple W.  Foreigner is so overplayed and he used to be a fan. Their new stuff gets on his nerves, dripping with lovey-dovey bullshit that makes his skin crawl.  Ben is _never_ going to be in love; he promised himself that much long ago.

Queen blares instead, pulling off his boxers and tossing them in the overflowing laundry basket shoved in the corner.  Pushing his hands through his hair, he pulls the curtain back and steps into the stream. The water is glacier melt and he yelps, reaching for the dial to bump the heat. Trembling until the stream becomes bearable, it's then that he moves onto scrubbing the cold sweat off his skin.  

It’s brisk and quick, the temperature beginning to fade after five minutes and rushing his ass to get as clean as possible.  Turning off the tap, he’s shivering even as he wraps the towel around his waist. Leaning over to shake his wet hair out in the tub, fat droplets hitting the tile wall to collect with the drip from the shower.

It’s time to piece himself into a presentable person, squirting cinnamon toothpaste onto the toothbrush and assaulting his mouth until his breath is fresh.  He’s not looking directly into the mirror as he spits and then squirts shaving cream into his palm. A safety razor in its regular spot in the medicine cabinet, he switches the blade with expertise before smearing the white cream across his jaw and cheeks.  Gliding across the foam, shaving to the point of a baby face is so habitual that he’s quick about it.

Soft and smooth skin greets him when he washes it off, _Rebel Rebel_ coming on.  Turning the volume up, he can’t resist the bob of his head as he towels off his continuously trickling hair.  Fully doing it is out of the question but it doesn’t stop the slick of pomade across his palms as he flips his head upside down.

Running the product through his hair, he flips it back up and adjusts a few tendrils framing his face.  He’s not seeking to shock anyone with subpar hair today. Opening the door, he steps out into the tiny hallway that two can’t walk abreast down.  Everything is little in his world, closing in until he can’t quite breathe. Ben is stepping back into his bedroom, pulling the dresser drawer and rifling through various pairs of the same black boxer-briefs.  Why reinvent the wheel when the wheel's what works?  Ben’s life cloaks in dark black, an excellent color. Also red, evident by the socks he picks out of the same drawer.

Throwing black jeans next to the pile, the din of The Psychedelic Furs is audible from the bathroom.  “Love my waaay-” Crooning as he throws on his Runaways tee, his head continues its bob to the beat as his belt slides through the loops on his jeans.  Not that he needs a belt, the fabric so skin-tight that it would stop traffic if it were on a girl.

Instead, clinging to him, the flex of sex is infinitely less appealing.  Taking one last quick look in the mirror, he exits his bedroom with the slam of a door.

He dumps cereal into a bowl, neglecting real breakfast.  Pouring milk on top, he turns on the television. “President Gunray has proposed the budget for the fiscal year of 1986 today, Congress has been said-”  Politics aren't really his thing, ears expertly tuning it to background noise to opt for the crossword puzzle he abandoned the day before. These aren’t really his thing either but he can’t stop doing them for some hellish reason.

Penciling in _attachment_ , the cereal in his bowl is finished and he needs to jet if he expects to get to Snoke on time.  Lateness is frowned upon; Ben had seen the bloody noses and black eyes that were incurred when someone was late.  He’s been in that position before, staring up at crimson knuckles with blood streaming out of his mouth.

_“This won’t happen again.”_

No, it wouldn’t, shrugging on the leather jacket that hangs on the hook by the door.  Ben grabs a helmet, glossy black and as futuristic as you could get on the Japanese market, it exudes dangerous.  The one thing he makes sure to bring is a paper bag from his freezer. He's been saving it since the week before, shoving it into his coat pocket without much more than a thought.

Giving one last look into his apartment as he pulls on his combat boots, he yanks the front door shut and turns the key in the deadbolt.  It was someone’s funeral if they thought they were safe to steal from him, an oversized sniffer dog for the lowlives of this city. Narrowing the list of who could’ve done it would be easy as pie.

“Hey, Ren.”  The name let him know who spoke, not bothering to look back from the door.

Resisting rolling his eyes, “Peavey.”  A customer who happens to live in his building, this lowlife would show up right now.  The middle-aged and balding man has to have a death wish after skipping out on paying one of their soldiers twice.

“I was wondering if you had any...uh…”

Before the man can finish, Ben’s whipping around and shoving him against the door on the other side of the hall.  Knife pulled with sharp reflexes, he’s holding it close to the miserable man’s chest. One step forward and skin would break, and entrails would spill out if he were to drag his wrist down.

“Next time you ask **us** for fucking coke-”  Whispering, making sure their eyes are locked.  Murderous brown against terrified green, a half-smirk curls up on his lips.

“You pay first.  Got it? So I don’t kill you and then fuck your wife in your bed after.”  Vulgarity gets the point across and Peevey is nodding his head quick enough to incur whiplash.  Ben steps back then.

Looking him up and down, “I like that robe.  Where’d you get it?” He means to taunt, plan at work as the other makes spluttering noises of confusion.

“Nevermind, maybe I’ll break into your house later and take it.  Say hi to your dog too.” A cocky smile on now, he leans away from his body and slides the knife back into its sheath, then concealing it in his coat pocket.  

Walking away from the man, he swears he smells urine and can hear it trickling down Peevey’s wobbling legs.  Ben’s stalks out of his complex; it's unbelievably polar as he tromps across the parking lot. Theg lossy black Suzuki Katana greets him, swinging his leg over the seat and sliding on the leather gloves from his pockets.  He pulls the helmet over his head, hoping it doesn’t completely fuck up his hair. One last crack of his neck and he’s opening up the choke and turning the key in the ignition, squeezing the clutch and pressing the start button with his pinky.  The engine fires up with resistance due to the cold, kicking the stand out from under him and walking the bike back out of the space. He’s easing the choke closed and opening the throttle before rolling forward and speeding out of the slippery parking lot.

The roads are pure slick frost and risky for any normal car to drive, let alone a motorcycle.  Ben can argue that the appeal of owning a bike is that any ride in the winter could end with skidding out and hitting a guardrail or some poor family’s mailbox.  It’s the guarantee that two-wheeled death trap could kill him if he very well wanted that draws like a sailor to a siren.

The perks of the East Side of Detroit are the easy grid-like connectivity of the streets, along with being an ass hair away from the Canadian border.  The city is so close that teenagers would drive over the border, take advantage of the eighteen-year-old drinking age, and still drive back in time for sunrise.  It makes smuggling drugs easy, a spotless criminal record and the whiteness of his skin also boosting the simple factor.

A sandy truck is pulling away from a curb, screeching to a stop and honking as he whizzes by the driver's side and narrowly intersects the opposite lane.  Uncaring, he banks hard left and speeds along the Detroit River while checking the clock on the dash and watching the minutes close in.

The chain link gate to the garage is open, rolling to a stop and cutting the engine.  Hopping off the bike, Ben stomps to knock on the garage door. Three knocks in a specific rhythm, almost a fourth before he hears the rattle of the chain and the door starts to open.  Walking back to his bike, he wheels it to the edge of the door before there’s a big enough space to walk under while he ignores the opener. His nose inhales the chemical smell of cooking crack through the ventilation and he needs to get out of the general vicinity before his eyes begin to water.  Ben only feels sorry for the poor kids who have to cook it, locked in a break room kitchen upstairs to only produce stock. Maybe the fumes got them addicted or the **quality testing**.

Checking the clock on the wall, he pulls the helmet off his head and sets it on the seat.  Shaking his limbs warm as he walks back to the office, he’s ignoring the few guys who stick to the fringes of the walls.  He knocks on the office door, comically frosted glass window staring back at him. Snoke has a thing for irony, office resembling a detective’s.

The door opens and Hux is on the other side with a shit-eating grin.  Not having time to make a witty jab, Ben steps forward before the desk of his leader.

Gold rings glinting beneath the one overhead light, a lit cigarette sits between his fingers.  Balding, liver spots blooming across his scalp and a body of someone that drinks like a fish stares back, Ben bows his head to greet Snoke.

“One minute to spare.  What have you brought me.”

No preamble has him nodding his head as he looks at the floor, fishing out the paper bag from his leather jacket.  Here goes nothing, nervousness blooming in his veins.

“They won't be an issue any longer.”

Throwing the paper bag on the desk with a flick of his wrist, he steps away from the glossy wood.  Mahogany, it reflects stoicism across his features that he practices so well. Red undertones like the deep thrum of his temper, about to flare up from recollection of acquiring the middle finger that's now pinched between a different index and thumb.

Just a vagrant junkie, nothing to cross anyone’s sonar.  In fact, it would be likely that the man fell into a snowbank and had the beginnings of withdrawals.  There would only be a body then, one that couldn’t pick him out from another lineup.

Emotionless, “You have done well.”  

No praise, Snoke being predictable.  Set jaw before a bob, Ben’s staring at his palms as he steps away.  To regain tight wound stoicism, he’s settling his body against the wall of the cramped office.  Is a middle finger not enough? Should he have brought a machete to the deal and lobbed off his hand?

Silence takes over the air and Hux steps up to offer whatever he’s managed to ascertain.

“I’ve got a new recruit coming.”

Of course, he fucking does.  Since Hux always needs to one-up him, the ginger is a toolbag, only filled with rocks instead of useful things.  

Khakis and a sweater vest, Hux emulates yuppie in comparison to the ash-child that Ben serves on a silver platter.  Two very different men, judged and pushed into the position of brothers.

Ben doesn’t have siblings, growing up as the sweet Starchild that his parents didn’t want to be around.  Though he knew what he saw on TV about siblings, brothers didn’t desire to slit each other’s throats at any free moment.

Ben can only wistfully hope that Hux would get shot in some deal gone bad.  Preferably in the back of the head, execution style.

Idly wondering if the blood would even appear in his fiery hair, Snoke interrupts, “You’ll be meeting her, **Solo**.”  Always the punctuation of disdain at his birth name, Ben refuses to have the name Kylo Ren uttered in private.  Kylo Ren serves the streets but Ben is a tiny kindling of rebellion he’s allowing himself.

Rebellion besides all the heads he kicks in and the grams he sells or the guns he markets off on the side.  Detroit is hard to make a living in if you want to stay under the radar and he doesn’t want to be tracked down by some private investigator goon.  Leia Organa would do as much.

Snoke doesn’t dip into petty stuff.  Recruits and checking them out was delegated to Ben long ago.  Never Hux, proven time and time again to let some inferior rats into the race.

He’s hard to read and cold and Snoke likes Mount Everest in a subservient position.  Rolling out his shoulders as he leans off the wall, his hair shakes with the shrug like a dripping dog trying to wick off the wet.

“Sounds good, boss.”  Dipping his head as he grabs the semi-automatic rifle leaned up against the desk, he checks the safety with a glance.  A C7, dragged over the Canadian border under heavy dog food bags that had previously held angel dust. The job had been risky and sprayed with the potential of arrest, though it didn’t get rid of the allure of dual weapons and drugs smuggling.  

It only increases the need to do it again along with the pleasure of slinging the rifle behind him and turning his back on both the yuppie and God himself.  Walking out of the grimy and smokey office, in stark comparison to the sickening tungsten that the hallway imposes. Leaning bodies of all the underlings take up so much airspace that Ben wants to shove each of them to the floor and kick their teeth in.

He’s wound up tight and he’s expected to pick some flower child recruit’s petals like this.

Don’t they know who he is?

“Solo.”

Similar distaste but it’s Hux so he could care less; turning his head to the side, spiting him with the denial of a full look.  Hux's huff fuels the burning fire.  “You’ll go easy on-”

Continuing his walk and the closing of his ears, he throws the door open to the central area of the mechanic garage.  A person gets used to the haunting smell of gasoline and antifreeze the more they spend time here or banging into the fire engine red car jack in the dark.  Mechanic garages are a great front, no cop wanting to case what used to be an upstanding business that brings so much to the automotive-focused community.

Business has been quiet for a while, save for the lower rungs milling about.  People that quickly stop and look to Ben with rapt attention, always so creepy when they act like he has any sort of authority.  Adjusting the gun on his shoulder, he finally rewards Hux with a look.

“Where are they.”  Expectant as he glares.  Hux doesn’t shrink into his shell, instead nodding his head to the area Ben had just been surveying.  Whipping his head back, a laugh rises and dies in his throat.

Hux has to be fucking kidding him.

There’s no way he’s managed to get a girl, let alone one of the prettiest he’s seen in this part of Detroit.  Somehow tan despite the lack of sun for five months, she’s standing in place with her hands behind her back. She’s also unmistakably nervous, kicking her bright cherry red chucks in a nervous shuffle.

Finally looking at her face, coffee-colored eyes sweeping along the angle of her jaw, he wishes he doesn’t have a fucking assault rifle slung across his back.  That isn’t a proper way to meet a girl; any father would advise against it when sitting down with his son for  _the talk_.  Plump lower lip, wrinkling her nose as her eyes dart around their surroundings, his eyes do a shameful roam of her collarbones and the top of her chest revealed by a button up.  A necklace sits there, something he’s trying to discern until leafy green eyes lock and his own need to dart away.

Ben needs to case her out no matter what she looks like.  He does this in his own way, remaining silent as he leans against the jack.  Crossing his arms over his chest, its Hux’s turn to vouch for someone. For once while their common “father” isn’t listening to his drivel.

Though she’s weakening his walls.  “I’m Rey.” Stepping forward, he can’t help his stiffening up.  The reaction happens whenever anyone advances too fast, long ingrained in his psyche from beatdowns and knife fights.  

Feet halt and his breath releases, somehow soundless.  He has to remain fair which means ghostly silence. Being particularly warm is a bad idea while all the other guys he’s cased before are here.  They’re looking at her like a piece of meat swaying from Riverfront Tower.

Keeping the sharks from snapping up to bite is looking to be a real challenge.

♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚♚

Rose doesn’t even question her when Rey shows up on her doorstep with wet soapy hair,  a bottle of conditioner, and a change of clothes.

The day had been coming, of course, the water shut off notice sat open on her kitchen counter and it didn’t exactly slip her mind.  She’s working on it, applying to any job application she can get her hands on. They all need legal documentation of residency, something she doesn’t posess.  It’s more than an inconvenience, her citizenship lost in the waiting system and probably never coming out.

Rey just didn’t think they would cut her water while she was showering, mid-shampoo.  The rapidity of her plugging the drain was futile, the precious amount whirling down to disappear.  With nothing else to do, it was a quick stomp across the hall to bang on Rose’s door.

Letting her in is when Rose has questions.  “You did pay your water bill right?” Rey is turning on the tap and assessing the soapy mat that her hair is quickly becoming by the minute, conditioner tossed in the bottom of the bathtub.  

“What do you think?”  Regretting the sarcasm the moment she says it, she thoroughly looks at Rose.  A grumpy parent on a school morning, the short girl is clothed in a grey robe with cutesy puppy slippers on her feet.  Rey can hear the news on the television from the teeny tiny living room and the sizzle of bacon on the stove. For a vet tech that adores farm animals, Rose has no problem eating any pig product.  

Rose only huffs before turning her back on her and shutting the door behind her.  Leaving her in the steamy bathroom, Rey vows to herself to say a big fat **thank you** for even letting her in.  No time to ruminate longer, she’s stripping off her dirty t-shirt and pajama pants and stepping into the hot spray.

Rose’s water somehow stays consistently hot, while Rey’s own pipes lean bone-chillingly cold.  The soap begins to trickle out of her hair and down her spine, the water heating up her muscles and kicking the soreness to the curb.  

She doesn’t want to do what she’s about to do, but what option does she hold?

Hux had made such an appealing offer at the drag race, so appealing that Poe Dameron had to warn her against it.

_“He’s a bad seed and his affiliations hurt people.  Hux isn’t a character you want to be around.”_

How could selling simple drugs be bad?  Marijuana isn’t the absolute worst thing in the world, despite popular opinion and reefer madness type propaganda.  All drugs are bad in some capacity, some worse than others.

If his type of drug dealing is so petty and minor, what would the issue be if Rey participates?  She isn’t going to be taking them, only supplying them to people who do and making a cut of money off of it.

Hux has a nice car, nice clothes, and a snobby attitude that he’s allowed to have because of the aforementioned.  Detroit’s economy is hurting and hemorrhaging, auto factories taking hits from overseas and a growing racial divide.  The city being pegged the murder (and arson) capital of the United States isn’t really aiding the economy either, people leaving for Canada or the fringes of the city.  Nobody is vying to replace those people, turning some areas into a type of ghost town.

Gunray is supposedly pulling the United States out of the rising and overwhelming inflation and unemployment but Rey hasn’t seen its effects in the six months living here.  Her new home is floundering with shallow breaths.

Drug dealing isn’t the worst thing she could do, seeing girls on street corners with coats that didn’t protect from the cold and getting into cars with particular types of men.  Though if she really gets desperate, she could be a girl who laps around the pole with singles down the front of her thong.

She vows that she won’t resort to stripping unless things get really tight.  Drugs were going to have to supplement until her citizenship is finalized.  

Her brunette hair is soft and her body flushed as she steps out of the stream, wrapping up in one of Rose’s inconceivably fluffy pink towels.  The medicine cabinet mirror is foggy, wiping the condensation away with her forearm and leaning forward to examine the tint of dark circles beneath her eyes.

Bruise-like shadows were going to remain, quick hands toweling the rest of the droplets off her body.  The jeans and plain button-up shirt were set out on the toilet seat, the beat-up red chucks by the front door.  Rey had neglected to do laundry before the water went bye-bye and simplicity is all she has.

No one reasonably gets dressed up to grovel to some drug dealer for income, but she wants to look decently presentable.  She’s shaking out her hair before sliding on a pair of panties, hoping to get her tresses at least damp before torturing it with a blow dryer.  She huffs while holding up her least favorite pair of jeans, they’re a little too loose in the waist and require a big belt. Only the rips on the acid washed knees are trendy, sliding on the army fatigued short sleeved button up to tuck into the waistband.

Adjusting the shirt every which way, she opts to unbutton two buttons instead of her normal one.  She expects to work her first deal before she gets her hands on the product and striking the sex appeal to a boiling point is a way to do it.

Practicing a silly-looking coy expression in the mirror, it feels manufactured in comparison to her normal sunbeam of a smile.  She needs to look tough, gnashing teeth and growling type tough. Abandoning that project, she’s adjusting the chain of her necklace.

The necklace is something she’s had since she could remember, found with her person when Rey was abandoned.  A tiny little star, still gold after all these years. It’s so important that she’s switched it to many different chains, currently maintaining a choker-like appearance since 16 (to mimic Madonna of course).

Plugging in the hair dryer is habitual along with turning it on to a medium heat setting and flipping her hair upside down.  It’s for extreme volume that would only be shoved into three buns at the back of her head. Mimicking a mohawk, each red scrunchie supports the style well enough.  A coating of Aquanet across her head and she tosses the can away to jump and check the bounce of her hair.

Still believable.  Biting her lower lip, Rey fixes the collar before stepping out of the bathroom.  The house smells like incense, burning on top of the wood coffee table to cover up the smell of cooking and lousy ventilation.  A smell only at Rose’s place along with the faint and lingering smell of Malibu Musk. Rose is holding the phone to her ear, twirling the cord around her pinky and speaking rapid Vietnamese.  

Rey tries to duck out of there until the phone slams back in the cradle.  Stopping in her tracks, she can feel Rose’s eyes bore a hole into her back.  “Do you need help with your water bill? I have some cash stashed away-”

“Save it.  I can sort this out myself.” 

Sighing, she turns to look at Rose fully.  Rose's arms cross over her chest with one eyebrow raised, resembling a skeptical parent like the ones she sees on TV.  “I mean...please don’t worry about it. I can handle it myself.”

Squeaking it out, Rose gives a tentative nod of approval.  “And you’ll **ask** for help if you need it.  Yeah?” Serious eyes still locked on Rey’s, lying to someone was always the hardest thing.

Rey can handle herself though.  She’s always been able to. At least she wants to think that way, wants to stomp the need for people to dust.  Then they would never hurt her.

“Of course.”  That much is acceptable for Rose and she’s getting yanked into the shorter girl’s arms for a long hug.  Only able to reciprocate, pulling away feels so wrong.

“You want any breakfast?  I could make you something really fast before I go to work-”  Rey’s shaking her head before she finishes.

“It’s fine, I can eat when I get home.  I gotta motor though.” Not giving Rose any room to really protest, Rey’s adjusting her shirt before turning to leave, dragging her keys off the counter where she had tossed them before.

“I’ll see you after work?”  Rose knows something is up, a cadaver dog with a robust scent.  

To dissuade, a look back over her shoulder.  “Duh. See you later.” A playful smirk casts on her lips; it takes an effort to make it stick as she turns her head forward and wanders out of the apartment.  Opening up her front door, she only pops in to grab her tan work coat off the hook. Blistering wintertime, no one worth their salt in this city would forget one.  Pushing the hood over her head, it makes her relatively nondescript and unrecognizable in the seedy den. All sorts live here and residing alone here as a girl isn’t the most fun thing to ever exist.  Pulling teeth is preferable, at least she could shatter bone with the baseball bat that sits by the inside of her door.  Nails slammed into the once clean wood; it’s meant to kill, not injure.

Frost hits her eyes and makes them water, shoving uncovered hands into her pockets to seek some origin of heat.  Her nightmares are watching her fingers freeze to non-existence, turning so purple that they break off like a wayward baseball into an icicle.  Rey needs all fingers to survive, the world taking no more than it already has.

She is going to survive.  Thrive. Repeating it like a mantra in her head, she’s shakily unlocking the rusted sandy-tan Chevy Cheyenne, parked on the street next to an empty plot of dead grass and concrete.  Desolate now, she sat in the clearing last summer and gazed up at the stars. The cab of the truck is freezing, lingering aroma of cigarette smoke coming out in the crisp winter time.  Breath fogging, it’s healing and gathering puffs.

A set of wheels and a radio make her happiest, turning the key in the ignition to draw warmth into the cab.  Her legs bouncing up and down with cold, nervousness begins to set in and bleed across her brain.

Rey couldn’t give up.  No way. Settling her foot on the clutch, she pulls out of the space.   No other cars are on the road and she idles in the lane to turn the dial on the radio.  Her ears pick the first thing they like, search never reasonably guided.

Foreigner catches them, ramping up to the chorus of _I Want to Know What Love Is_. Beaming as she throws her car into drive, nearly balding wheels skate over the slick pavement.  Crooning at the top of her lungs, “I want to know what love is! I want you to shoooooow meeeeeee-”

The truck squeaks to a stop at another curb, right next to a pay phone.  The Eastown theater is barren down the street, the morning quiet and sleepy still. A ghost town, haunted by wannabe actors and punks looking for something easy to break into.  She minds the ice as she hops from the car, ducking her head from the wind. Rey shoulders into the payphone booth while dipping into her pockets to find a piece of the napkin with Hux’s phone number on it.  The paper had been given to her with a stomach-churning wink, her fingers grasp it and hold it up just beneath the phone.

Wallet shoved into her pocket, she fishes out twenty cents, chipping away at the two dollars she has to her name.  “Fucking inflation.” Dialing out the number, she’s shoving the phone to rest between her shoulder and ear.

The dial tone rings and she silently hopes for an answer or at least some sort of divine intervention.

It comes with a snarling, “Hello?”

Now or never.  “Hux! It’s Rey.”

A long pause before, “Oh yeah.  I assume you’re calling about my offer.”

At least the ginger is succinct.  Rey gulps down and scratches at the back of her neck, knowing this is her last chance to show visible nervousness.

“I am.  I was wondering if we could get that process started today-”  A deep breath fills her lungs like a balloon and she wants to regain her bearings.

Hux regains them for her.  “Come to the spot, AT-AT garage.  You know where that is right?” Snobbishly said, her eyes shut and nostrils flare.  Rey had applied for jobs near that garage, remembering its imposing black face and locked chain link fence.  Long abandoned, evident by the lights being off and out of operation during the essential day hours.

“Yeah-”

“Good, then come on over, knock three times.  Snoke will be pleased with your presence.”

 **Snoke**.  Pushing that name forward to cement deep in the recesses of her brain, she needs to get it over with.  The phone clicks and the dial tone fills her ear. Slamming it back into its cradle, she’s inhaling one last bit of warmth before heading out of the booth.

Sliding back into her driver's seat, the engine starts again and she pushes the car into drive and twists her wheel to pull out into the road again.  That is until something black comes whizzing by, inches from her car and getting her foot to slam on the brakes. Hands reflexively hit the horn, blaring into the wintery silence.

Panicked breathing takes over her chest, wiping out her brain on memorizing a plate number on the black motorcycle or some discerning feature on the fully black clothed rider.  “Jesus fucking Christ.” She’s whispering it as she eases her lead foot off the brake and pumps the clutch to move forward again.

She drives slow down the road and on the turns, the radio at a low hum now and playing Joy Division.  Slowing down at the sight of the garage, the chain-link fence is open and she eases her truck into the parking area outside of the huge doors.

Engine still running, there’s still a chance to turn around and do anything else with her life.  Something legal preferably. Once Rey went into the garage, unarmed she’s now realizing, it was all over.

The engine stops and she steps out of the car, huddling into herself for warmth as she walks and knocks on the doors.  Three times and a long wait after.

She’s starting to think its a prank before the door begins to open and reveal a dingy mechanic’s garage.  Sans cars, it smells overwhelmingly like chemicals and some sort of cleaning product. A tiny voice inside of her told her that the origin couldn’t be cleaning products, based on the layer of grime on everything she sees upon entrance.

“Who are you?”  The opener of the door is asking this, shorter and brunette.  His eyes are scared looking, even as he tries to play it off to be tough.

She bites her chapped lower lip, nearly bloody from the cold and fissures in the tender skin.  “Hux sent me. I’m Rey.” Holding out her trembling red hand, he doesn’t take it. Only glosses over her and lets the chain slide through his grip to allow the garage door to clatter closed.  Another door opens then, along with heavy footfalls across the cold concrete. Her eyes rake over the body coming through the door.  He's imposing, cloaked in black with unruly alike hair.  Her eyes are only on the assault rifle slung across his back, revealed when he turns to the following Hux.  Two very opposite men, dark and imposing looking back at the bright spark of a ginger.

“Where are they.”  Rumbling voice, making her lungs hurt in sympathy.  Hux looks at her fully now, before nodding at her. She wants to sink into the floor, hands shoving deep into her pockets now.

The lion turns to look upon the lamb and the weak prey has no chance with someone as beautiful as the predator.  Pitch-black and unruly hair, coordinating dark eyes scan her up and down. His mouth is open then closes to a red-tinted and stoic set of lips.  His face is angular, she can see the roll of his jaw beneath mole dotted skin.

Rey is so fucked.  Colossally and massively fucked.

Avoiding his eyes, her chucks squeak against the concrete and resemble blood against the grey.  If she knew that this was going to be some sort of beauty pageant, she would’ve worn a swimsuit and tiara.

Instead, she looks like a fur trapper from up North, the bottom of her tan utility coat rubbing between her nervous fingers as she waits for him to speak.  To say anything.

No words pass in the space between them and that's when she starts to get scared, ears perking for the soft click of the safety.  Rey doesn’t want to be chum for the surrounding people to feed, not another Jane Doe found on the side of the Detroit River with no dental records to find.  A way to fuck with a potential killer is humanizing yourself, even while his eyes are skating over your chest and flitting away.

Stepping quickly forward, she’s not expecting the flinch or the rigidity of his shoulders as he leans on the car jack.  She wants to tell him to stop that, that car jacks weren’t a kickstand.

Instead, “I’m Rey.”

Silence waves back, his eyes never straying from hers.

What did she get herself into?

**Author's Note:**

> when i say i am genuinely so excited about this, i am like bouncing in my seat and biting my knuckles as i write this authors note. i've been wanting to write something set in the 1980's for a long time, but i could never find a plot that i could really fall in love with or see myself continuing in a long-form way.
> 
> this also makes me nervous to write about as it pertains to a deeply damaging part of America's history that still lasts to this day. the War On Drugs (and the prisoners and casualties that come with it) has destroyed so many communities like Detroit. intense amounts of research have gone into this, but i am still underqualified to tell the real stories of those affected. yes, this is fiction, but also its the best way i can convey how horrible the ramifications are pertaining to this period of history.
> 
> i will add tags as i go and i am always looking for feedback on my [tumblr](https://dankobah.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https:/twitter.com/dankobah). thank you to my betas, [Kristian](https://star-horse.tumblr.com/) and [Carina](https://oxvnfree.tumblr.com/) for reading through this and giving lovely lovely feedback. also a big thank you to [The Workshop](https://mrsvioletwrites.tumblr.com/post/179578240543/mrsviolentfrights-the-workshop-discord-server) for making this the best thing it can be and cheering me on. you guys will never know how much you helped.
> 
> and with that, i think that is this author's note. thank you for reading and welcome to the ride.


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